The Dig

by Michael Siemsen

  “Oh, bloody hell,” she moaned. He had slumped all the way to one side, his bare cheek resting on the seat. She pulled his arm to straighten him out and began to feel a sense of dread again at how limp his body felt. She pushed the term “dead weight” from her head as she righted him. With him steady again, she slid out from the seat and poked her head under the table. Something touching his ankles? She pulled his pant leg up and saw a white sock. She reached in, past his calf—so his socks were the long sort that went nearly to the knee. It made sense. Something in his shoe, maybe? But then, how would he have walked over here?

  She needed help.

  She crawled out from under the table and, after another look at his motionless face, ran out the door.

  “I think we should strip him down bare in his tent,” Peter said. “We’ve tried everything else. We know he was fine in there last night—everything is definitely new. Something could have slipped down his shirt or something.”

  Tuni looked at him in despair. They had tried everything, and the timer apparently wasn’t doing its job.

  “How long does the timer take to charge?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he replied. “Meier had it made several years ago as an upgrade to the one his father had put together. It uses some special lithium battery to give him enough juice, but like I said, that’s beside the point. The timer is for waking him up when he’s in a reading. If we’ve taken everything away from him that he would be reading, the timer should be irrelevant. Come on—let’s get some more people in here to help move him.”

  Rheese moved out of their way, and Tuni glanced at him. He seemed to be somewhat concerned, but she had lost any shred of trust she might have had in him.

  “I’ll wait with Matt,” she said to Peter’s back as he hurried out the door.

  She sat down beside Matt’s inert body, his head now lolling back against the seat back, mouth agape.

  “Perhaps you should try pouring cold water over his head,” Rheese suggested, leaning against the cabinets.

  “Hmm,” she muttered, not looking at him.

  A few minutes later, Peter returned with Rodney, Jesse, Fozzy, and Graham. Tuni moved and allowed the five men to get their arms under Matt’s armpits and thighs, raise him over the table, and muscle him awkwardly out the door.

  “Go open his tent,” Peter said to Collette as they shuffled past.

  She darted ahead and unzipped it, tying it open. Hunching down, they pulled and scooted the limp body into the tent and set it down gently on the sleeping bag.

  “Okay,” Peter began, “I’d like everyone out, please. We need to minimize the chance of something else touching his skin.”

  Peter ignored the question from Graham, “Why does it matter if something touches his skin?”

  As they all piled out, Peter saw Tuni crouching over outside the door.

  “You want to help me with this?”

  “Ah… I—I don’t think I should.”

  “Great,” he huffed. “So you’re going to stand there and watch me strip him, but you won’t cross the line and help?”

  She swallowed and sighed and finally came into the tent as Peter began pulling off Matt’s boots.

  “We should leave him a bit of dignity, don’t you think?” she said, nodding to the doorway. At least fifteen sets of eyes gawked back at them. “Especially if he wakes up right now.”

  “Whatever,” Peter replied peevishly. “I think there are certain things we stop worrying about in emergency situations, but if it’ll make you feel better, go ahead.”

  “I got it,” Rodney said, and he untied the door flap and began to zip it up. “Let’s go, you lot. Bunch of gawking wankers, every one of you…”

  The voices trailed off.

  As Peter shucked off Matt’s bright white socks, Tuni turned to the gray turtleneck. She pulled the bottom up, exposing an undershirt, which she wrestled over his arms and head and tossed in the corner. As Peter unbuttoned his jeans, she untucked the undershirt and pulled it off as well. Peter moved to Matt’s feet and slid the pants all the way down and pitched them in the corner.

  “Last bit…” Peter said as he slid off the black boxer briefs. “Okay, let’s make sure there’s nothing else touching him besides the sleeping bag material.”

  Tuni gulped and pulled up a wrist, checking one armpit and then the other. Peter examined between the toes, then glanced around everywhere else.

  “All right, let’s him roll him over,” he said, and got his hands under Matt’s legs.

  Tuni turned away as she pushed against a shoulder until Matt lay facedown.

  Peter sighed. “Damn it… okay, you might want to look away again—I’m gonna spread the cheeks to be sure… yep, nothing out of the ordinary there. Now, check his ears and hair.”

  Tuni tilted Matt’s head to one side and looked in one ear as well as she could. Then, after lifting and turning it the other way, she examined the other ear. Then she slid her fingers into his hair, shaking it out. Nothing fell out.

  “This sucks,” Peter finally said as they plopped back down beside him. “Well, let’s roll him back over and cover him up with the sleeping bag, at least a little. It’s going to be roasting in here in a couple of hours.”

  As they struggled, moving him around and unzipping the sleeping bag, Tuni began to lose hope. “What if it was too much?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was so against longer sessions, but then he started doing them on his own. He had said he always tried to avoid it. He even said he was feeling sick last night before dinner. That he needed a break. What if it’s just too much for his mind? Like… maybe he could get stuck there.”

  After tossing a flap of sleeping bag over Matt’s lower half, Peter sat back and looked at her with a solemn face. “I don’t think he’s there, Tuni.”

  “What does that bloody mean?” she said with a quavering voice, her eyes beginning to well up again.

  “I mean, he’s not touching anything, so he couldn’t be there. I’m not a doctor, so I’m not going to say the word, especially not this soon, but I think he’s just on his own right now—you know, dreaming his own dreams.”

  “The word is ‘coma,’ Peter. There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Well, I tell you what—he is not dreaming any of his own dreams right now! I’ve seen this face when it’s dreaming.” She stroked Matt’s cheek and held her hand there as she looked at him through blurry eyes.

  Peter looked at her and decided not to reply. He straightened the sleeping bag a little more and crawled to the door. “You stay with him, okay? I’ve gotta call for some help.”

  She turned and gazed at him, her cheeks shiny with tears. “How is anyone going to know what to do with him? No one will understand.”

  Peter took a deep breath. “I don’t know, but we have to get him out of here fast. I don’t think we’ll have much luck getting water into him, and he’ll dehydrate within thirty-six hours. He needs a hospital, and you’ll go with him. You make sure they understand.”

  Tuni nodded and sobbed, unable to restrain her emotions any longer. As he opened the tent and jogged away, she heard Felicia begin to cry outside. Tuni contained her anger and didn’t scream at her, though she wanted to. Instead, she crawled to the door, gave the gathered team her best smile, and zipped the flap closed again.

  38

  AS THE CLOUDS BEGAN TO DRIFT apart and stars reappeared above, Irin began thinking about the next sleeping place. He moved from the front of the column and walked backward beside Pwig. In the distance, the rocky encampment had shrunk, and the mountains surrounding it appeared no taller than the Center House.

  Around them, the surface was flat, and one could see all the way to its ends, where the stars disappeared. The small shrubs seemed to be houses for an endless number of the hairy crawlers, skittering about the dirt and eating small berries and things they dug from the dirt.

  Irin turned around and walked forward again. His brother kept wanting
to talk about the fight with the screamers, but Irin was no longer interested. He had seen a pair of flyers sail over a short time ago. Flyers had never attacked anyone in Pwin-T before, though they were known to pull a k’yon stalk from the food flats and fly away with it. Pret had told them that the flyers never seemed interested in eating the k’yon, but only in taking them off to the mountaintops to build their houses. He had also seen them in the trees, breaking off dying branches with their long beaks or picking up those that had fallen to the ground. If that was the case, though, Irin thought, what did flyers eat? Norrit had spotted them gliding off in the distance, and they had clearly sailed closer to the ground when they flew over the line of people, as if to have a look.

  “Don’t you think?” Pwig said to him.

  “Sorry, Pwig, what did you say?”

  “Which part?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t hearing you.”

  “I said, the screamers will probably eat the dead ones when they find them. Don’t you think so?”

  “I don’t know. If there are more, I suppose it’s possible.”

  “What do you think Tillyt and Otillyt are doing right now? Do you think they’re good still?”

  “I think so,” replied Irin, distracted.

  “You don’t think they are, do you? Do you think their food ran out?”

  “What? No… no, they are fine. There is plenty of food. Not even two nights have passed. Don’t be thick.”

  “Do you think—” Pwig began.

  “No, Pwig, be silent. Let’s just walk, please.”

  Pwig muttered to himself and then fell silent.

  As Irin walked, he could feel soreness in his legs, and a sharp pain nagged at him from under his arm with each step of his left foot. He had felt something pop inside when the screamer’s head dropped upon him.

  Eventually, the sky behind them began to change colors—the early signs of sunrise. They had made little progress toward any better terrain for daylight sleeping. He knew it would be very difficult for everyone to get any sleep with the light of the sun reddening their eyelids from without. He had considered it before they left Pwin-T, not anticipating the good fortune of caves, but hoping they might at least find a forest or some sort of sheltering area. Peering off into the distance ahead, he saw no sign of any cover. He had also contemplated walking during daylight, perhaps shielding their eyes with scraps of clothing.

  He watched a crawler scurry in front of him and dart into its cave in the ground. Perhaps they could dig their own crawler holes—they had brought many dirtpulls. He thought about it for a moment and dismissed the idea. Perhaps they would proceed with such a plan when they reached their destination, but it would take far too much time to dig enough holes for everyone now.

  He moved aside again and stopped walking, allowing the group to pass him by. He studied their faces as they passed, and again wondered at their strength. The fighters all looked strong and unfazed by the journey. Farther down the line, the men pulling n’wips were a different story. With their k’yot middles hanging behind them, they looked worn out, even on this flat land. The women, too, appeared fatigued and no doubt hungry. He reminded himself that none were accustomed to this much walking. Only the new seemed truly cheerful, chasing crawlers to their holes while their mothers scolded them.

  “Those may be only the babies, Gillen,” he heard one mother say to a laughing girl. “The old may be the size of screamers, waiting to leap from a giant hole in the ground and gobble you down!”

  Orin approached, and he walked to her. Behind her, Wil, his face dripping with sweat, pulled Owil and the newest.

  “Do you have a second to help you, Wil?” Irin asked.

  Wil looked up at him with a guilty expression. Irin tilted his head. Wil nodded in Orin’s direction.

  “Orin?” Irin said in disbelief. “Are you pulling this n’wip?”

  She looked at him, untroubled, “Yes. What of it?”

  “What of it!” he replied angrily. “I don’t want you becoming exhausted before everyone else! You mustn’t deplete your legs of their strength.”

  Another woman moved close to them as they walked.

  “She’s been helping others with their n’wips as well,” the woman confided in a disapproving tone.

  “What do you care, Oinilyg?” Orin snapped, and pushed her face so that her jaw made a clopping sound. Oinilyg stalked angrily away, cradling her cheek.

  Irin put his arm around Orin affectionately. “I like your strength with her,” he said with a smile.

  “She is useless—with no higher purpose than silencing the new and stealing food from the n’wips.”

  “Well, it’s good that you stand up, but I want you to stay away from the work of a man, understand?”

  “I understand what you are saying, but look at me and then at Wil and the other pullers. Do I appear as weary as them? When you see my shoulders scraped and raw and my eyes drooping, then you can tell me to stop and I’ll be happy to perch atop a n’wip as you would have me do.”

  He didn’t like it, but he had to admit, she did not yet appear exhausted. Eventually, though, she would tire, and when she did, he would return and embarrass her by doing exactly as she said: sit her in a n’wip and pull her himself. Until then, perhaps her insolence would work to motivate, whether by shame or by example, any man tempted to complain.

  He allowed the travelers to pass him until the rear guard caught up. Now that they were no longer confined to a narrow path, the line had widened.

  The sky grew brighter behind them, and Irin decided it was time to stop and ready an encampment. Marching ahead, he found Pwig and Norrit having similar thoughts, and so they stopped and surveyed the area after sending word back to circle the n’wips. Irin also sent scouts out forward and to the sides to see what lay just beyond their sight. People voiced their concerns over how they would sleep under the sun, and he suggested huddling together and using clothes to shield their eyes, as the new did when playing blind-eyes. All complied, though the prospect of being caught in full sun frightened them.

  Shortly after the n’wips had been arranged in a loose circular enclosure, long daggers of sunlight shot out from between the distant peaks. People began to groan in pain and also in fear. Many of the smaller new cried and huddled behind their mothers as the sun climbed higher in the sky.

  Irin saw one of the men unstrap his k’yot top and turn it around with the face hole in back. He tried it himself and found that, though it hurt against his face wound, it did a good job of shielding his eyes from the light without blinding him completely.

  Most of the people had finally succumbed to their exhaustion, while others rolled about uncomfortably, squinting in the dazzling light. Checking on the sixty fighters who stood guard outside the barrier of n’wips, he found several trying vainly to shield their burning eyes with their hands. After showing them how to turn their tops around backward, he returned to find Orin, asleep beside the n’wip that had carried Owil. Beside her, Owil slumbered, the sleeping newest a shrouded lump beneath her blanket.

  As he knelt down between Orin and another woman, he saw Wil’s face appear from beneath the same blanket. Wil squinted at the faceless k’yot before him.

  “Irin?” His friend’s voice sounded anxious.

  “Yes, Wil,” he replied, and turned the k’yot top around just enough to reveal the side of his face.

  “No… don’t,” Wil breathed with dread.

  Irin turned the k’yot fully around and held his hand before his eyes to block out the unbearable, blinding light.

  “What is it?” he asked, troubled by his friend’s behavior.

  “Your k’yot… that’s how you wear it…”

  At first Irin didn’t understand; then it hit him: Wil’s vision! He must be wearing his k’yot top backward at his death. It made sense—now that he had discovered a good way to filter the sunlight, of course he would be wearing it in this way. Wil had said it would be during daylight. But when? Did he ev
en know? He had said only “soon.”

  He turned the heavy protective garment backward again and stood peering round the group and beyond the n’wips. He could see nothing of concern—no approaching creature, no building storm to flood them, no rocks that might fall on them.

  Placing his hand on Wil’s shoulder, he said, “Sleep, my friend, and don’t worry—there’s nothing in this moment that we can do.

  As Irin’s racing mind slowed, he drifted off to sleep and fell immediately into terrible dreams. A flyer swooped down and snatched him up, only to drop him from a great height. He landed on the ground and felt crushed, as he had when trapped under the screamer. The flyer came again and dropped him over and over again. After a while, he could no longer move any part of his body. The flyer lifted him by one foot and flew him far away from his people. As he hung from the monster’s beak, he felt himself melt into a brown liquid, like thin mud, and drip down to the ground. As his melted face sank into the dirt, he felt that he could no longer breathe. In the darkness, his body tried to come back together, but the soil was too hot, and he began to merge with it, losing himself in it, so that he could not say where his body ended and the dirt began.

  He awoke to the cries of Owil’s newest beside him. Seeing the faint blue of a lightstick, he realized that his k’yot top was still backward. He turned it around and saw a black vault of sky, strewn with stars. Relief washed over him—he had lived to see another night! No danger had awoken him; no creature had come to kill him. He inhaled the cool air and closed his eyes, savoring the sensation.

  Sitting up, he realized that he was one of the last few people still asleep. How long had the sun been gone? There was certainly no sign of sunset light in the distance. He looked for Orin, but she was not in sight.

  He stood up, his side aching, and felt his neck pop and crack as he rolled his head around. Looking about for Orin, he saw a crowd of people around two displaced n’wips. Words and arms were flying; there appeared to be a problem.

  Irin stepped over to a crowd of some fifty people, with Orin standing in the center, shouting at Gwilt.